


This Little Piggy....

by Emmithar



Series: Whumptober 2020 [2]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Arthur Whump, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Mutilation, Whumptober 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:35:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26820760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emmithar/pseuds/Emmithar
Summary: “Let's see how long it takes before you start to squeal like the pig you are.”A young Arthur gets captured by the O'Driscolls after a stage robbery gone wrong.Whumptober 2020Prompt #6 Please...'Get it out' 'Stop, please'Prompt #11 Psych 101 'Crying'Prompt #18 Panic! At the Disco 'Panic Attack'
Series: Whumptober 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1953217
Comments: 10
Kudos: 72
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	This Little Piggy....

**Author's Note:**

> TW: Some graphic descriptions of mild mutilation

It had been going well.

At first.

The stage had been easy enough to take. Unguarded, laden with money and supplies meant for the next town. Dutch taking the lead, his voice chipper as he calmly explained to the men what was going to happen. That no one would get hurt as long as they complied.

Arthur made quick work, cleaning out the cash, taking what valuables he could find. Ignoring the crates of hooks and saws, the bags of salt-all of which was meant for the butcher's stall. With winter coming, the herds would be culled, the meat packed, ensuring the town would make it through to the spring. That was none of their concern. Only the money was.

He was grabbing the last bit of it when the first shot rang out. A muted cry, Arthur watching as the driver slumped over. Dutch's sharp cry, the man shouting at him to run.

O'Driscolls.

It was always the damn O'Driscolls. Like a pack of wild dogs, eagerly hunting down whatever prey they could find. Their excited whoops and hollers sending a shiver down his spine. A second shot left the driver's companion dead. He needed to move.

Arthur tossed the sack to Dutch, jumping down from the wagon, racing towards his horse. His mare, holding steady despite the clamor. Arthur pulled himself up, following Dutch's retreating form. Was making good headway.

Until the rope landed about his shoulders. Yanking him clean off the horse. The ground hit him in a rush, stealing his breath. He was momentarily stunned, unable to react. His lungs, after what seemed like far too long, finally obeyed the silent command to breathe, the air rushing in. Then he was moving. Knew he didn't have time to simply sit and wait. Arthur reached up, tossing off the rope from his shoulders. Reaching for his gun.

It was kicked from his hand before he could even get his finger around the trigger.

Like a pack of wild dogs, the O'Driscolls had found their prey. Hooting and hollering, their laughter ringing in his ears as he was kicked and punched and tossed about. Unable to get a hold, unable to fight back. He was pressed, hard, into the ground. Tasting dirt. Arms pinned behind his back. A fist curling in his hair, yanking his head up. The ugly, greasy haired bastard mere inches from his face, the putrid stench assaulting his nose.

“He ain't nothin' but a kid!”

_Kid?_ He was sixteen years old, for christ sake. He let out a growl, snapped at them to let him go. Unsurprisingly, they didn't listen, the threat falling on deaf ears as he was hauled up to his knees. Hands held firm on his shoulders, arms still held fast behind him. His head was ringing, dazed from all the blows. Blood was trickling from his nose, the metallic taste coating his tongue. 

“Ain't just any kid,” another one spat. “This here is Dutch's boy; the little runt he went and picked up.”

More laughter, chilling him to the bone. His heart racing. Arthur set a hard stare, glaring back at the greasy-haired man who stood in front of him. Trying his best to not show any fear. 

“You think Dutch will want him back?”

Dutch would come for him. 

Wouldn't he?

“Ol' Dutch is long gone,” came the response. A chuckle splitting the air. “Took off as soon as he had the money.”

There was a knife, the blade cold against his flesh, digging into his skin. Forcing his head up to avoid being cut. “Ain't that right, sugar?” Greasy-hair wondered, “You're  _daddy_ done left you behind. He ain't here to save you; best you tell us where he went with our cash, and we'll let you go.”

“Ain't yours,” he spat out. Still held onto the hope that Dutch would come. Surely by now the man would realize Arthur wasn't with him. Surely he wouldn't just-

“Oh, but it was,” the O'Driscoll continued, crouching so that he was eye level with him. “This here's been our stretch for the last two months. We own this road, ain't no one taken it from us yet, and no one ain't gonna step in now. So go on, tell us; where's he hiding?”

“Go to hell,” he spat in the man's face. It earned him a blow to the stomach, his gut seizing. He couldn't even curl up on himself, held firm as he was. The burn racing through him, threatening to choke him. The knife cutting into tender flesh, a thin line of blood beading on the surface of his neck. 

“You best do yourself a favor, little piggy, and squeal. Make this easy on yourself.”

He said nothing. Simply glared back. Tried to ignore that spark of fear that was attempting to ignite within him. He might be a lot of things; a thief, a killer, a fool...but he wasn't a rat. And Dutch would come. 

Arthur just had to hold on till then. 

The frustration on Greasy-hair's face was easy to read. The snarl ugly and gruesome, the yellow of his teeth showing as he straightened. The knife pulled free shortly before he was smacked soundly across the face. Once...twice...his ears ringing. Vision swaying. Spots dancing before his eyes. 

The voice, echoing as the man screamed into the open air. 

“We got your lapdog, you bastard! Come fetch your pet!”

There was no response. The man growled, his voice even darker and heavier than before, pacing back and forth in front of him. Arthur's heart hammered inside his chest, lungs aching as he tried to keep himself calm. Reminded himself that Dutch would come for him. Believed it with every fiber of his being. Dutch wouldn't just leave him here...

He swallowed, watching the as another, lankier man, jumped down from the wagon, confirming there was nothing left to be had. It enraged Greasy-hair, the man kicking the wagon in frustration, a string of curses splitting the air. A moment later, his gaze set back upon him, and Arthur felt his heart quicken as Greasy-hair stormed back to him. Fist back in his hair, head yanked back, knife dug sharp under his chin. He couldn't help the whimper that was pried from his lips.

“You tell us where he went, _boy,_ or I promise you that I will make this as unpleasant as I can.”

“We should take 'im to Colm,” another O'Driscoll suggested.

“And tell him what?” Greasy-hair snarled. “That we were bested by a kid? You want a bullet in your head? Be my guest. I ain't going back till I have the money,” his gaze fell back on Arthur. Dark, dangerous, deadly. A tiny piece of fear was eating away at him. 

“He ain't gonna squeal.”

“Oh he will,” Greasy-hair argued. “Seems he needs...a little convincing.”

“Will this work?”

Lanky held up something. Arthur felt his heart seize. The panic washing over him in a wave. He couldn't breathe. They couldn't be serious. They wouldn't-

“You know what this is boy?” Greasy-hair smiled, taking the metal hook from Lanky. It ran the length of his forearm. Thick as several fingers. Curved at the end. The tip, sharp and pointed. Gruesome. His breath was caught in his throat, heart pounding as the man's smile widened.

“This here is for dangling meat for the slaughter. Hang 'em up, slice the throat,” he gestured, drawing the back of knife against his flesh in a gentle caress. Arthur suddenly felt nauseous, swallowing back bile. He could barely hear the laughter over the pounding of his heart.

“Let's see how long it takes before you start to squeal like the pig you are,” Greasy-hair laughed, his voice turning just then. “Hold him down.”

He fought. God did he ever fight. But he was a boy among men. Hands pinning him down, holding him firm. Knees burrowing into his back, leaving bruises. More weight on his legs, ceasing his frantic kicking. A hand, tight on his neck, digging into his flesh. His shirt, ripped haphazardly over his head, the sharp tip of the hook, dragging over exposed flesh. 

Then it found purchase. White hot pain tearing through him. Tears welling in his eyes. His heart, stopping. 

He screamed. 

* * *

It hadn't taken him long to notice he was alone. 

Didn't think much of it. Wasn't the first time, after all, that they had gone separate ways. They would regroup at camp. 

So Dutch kept going. The sack, laden with their efforts, was a comforting weight. He had been tracking this route for weeks now. Had watched wagon after wagon beset upon. Knew that this route was ripe for the plucking. Things had gone almost perfectly. Next time-next time they would hit the wagon sooner. Hopefully avoid Colm's boys altogether.

He was the first one back to camp. Again it wasn't a surprise. He had taken the lead, after all. Dutch stowed the bag in his tent, cracked open a beer in celebration as he waited for Arthur to come in. Two years, the lad had been with them for two years, and was proving surprisingly resourceful. Even in Hosea's absence, they were still able to accomplish quite the feat. 

He finished the beer. There was still no sign of Arthur. A slight worry beginning to settle. The boy  _should_ have come in by now. Perhaps he was just taking a long way around. Avoiding being trailed. Just as Dutch had taught him. This thought racing through his mind, calming him. Reassuring him. 

Until his horse came in alone. 

Trotting in like nothing had taken place. That worry coming back. Gnawing at him. Dutch took to his horse, heading back out. Arthur's name falling from his lips as he followed the road back out. The fear mounting. Brewing into something ugly. A thousand thoughts racing through his head as every call went unanswered. 

It turned into sheer panic when he heard the scream. A pained cry echoing through the woods. Dutch felt his blood run cold. Frozen. Only for a moment. 

Then he was racing. 

Pushing his horse as fast as he dared. Racing towards the sounds. The cries, the pleads...Arthur's voice breaking as he sputtered and begged. What the  _hell_ were they doing to him? He felt bile building in the back of his throat, blinding rage overpowering him as he broke through the last of the trees. The laughter incensing him more. 

They had Arthur pinned against the side of the wagon. Holding him there. Too far away to see what they were doing, but close enough to see the blood that coated him. Close enough to hear his sobbing pleas, close enough to hear their vile words.

“Come on, sugar, tell us where your daddy done run off to, and we'll let you down.”

Fucking Hell.

Arthur was crying. His words a broken mess, “Stop...please stop...I-I don't-”

Dutch felt his hands shake. A fury unlike anything he had ever felt before coursing through his veins. God damn monsters. The guns heavy in his hands, shots fired before he could even finish the thought. The men, the bastards unaware he had even been coming. All dead before they could even turn around. His heart still pounding ferociously, ears ringing, still blinding by that infernal rage. 

And Arthur...

Oh God...

His vision went white. Sound around him dissipated. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't think. He could only stare. His entire world, focused on the battered form, still there...still-still stuck the side of the wagon. But how? 

A sobbing gasp tore him from his trance, Dutch forcing himself to move. Arthur in a sheer panic, bloody hands reaching, clawing at the hook that was nailed in the wood. The tip was-shit the tip was skewered into his skin, looped through a fold of skin, suspending him from the shoulder. Hanging there...slowly-slowly tearing-

He caught the boy. Hefted his weight up. Up and off that vile thing. Tried to pull the nail free, to release him from the wagon. It was stuck fast, buried deep within the wood, and Arthur-Arthur was not helping. Struggling, fighting, pushing against him. Crying, begging, tears and snot running down his face, an inhuman sound turning his blood to ice. 

“Out-get it out!”

“I'm trying,” Dutch sputtered, one hand clawing at the nail, ignoring the splinters catching in his fingers. The metal cold beneath his touch. The blood warm...the contrast sickening. He couldn't get it, he couldn't...

Arthur was still fighting, feet dangling mere inches off the ground. Unable to find purchase, unable to provide any real help. Dutch shifted, arm wrapped about his waist, hauling him up, wedging a knee under him, against the wagon. Giving him  _something_ to rest on. Something to help, when he let go.

Cause he had to let go. Had to ignore that horrible whimper that was torn from the boy's throat as his weight pulled him back down on that blasted hook. Dutch was quick as he could be. Both hands gripping the nail, pulling it free. He barely caught the boy as he fell, holding Arthur against him. 

The boy was still panicking. Hands clawing, trying to rip out the offending object. Screams still in his throat, breaths far too fast, eyes wide. It was all he could do to keep up. To hold his hands back. To pin his wrists down. To  _stop_ him from making it worse. 

“Hurts,” he nearly screeched, shoulders heaving, his face crushed against Dutch's chest. Dutch kept his wrists pinned with one hand, wrapped his other about the boy's head, holding him close. His voice was raw, thin like ice, so ready to break. 

Arthur needed to calm down. 

“I know, son, I know,” the apology weak. Shaky fingers combed through sandy blonde hair. Giving whatever comfort he could. “We're gonna...I'm gonna get it out alright, but just...you need to breathe. Come on now, breathe with me.”

God he was shaking something fierce. Pressed against him, held so tight it felt as though he might break in half. Muscles flexing, spasming within his hold. Crying so hard he was choking, gagging. Dutch continued the mantra, reminding him to breathe, praying he would calm down. 

Or pass out. 

Anything to help him deal with the sheer amount of pain he had to be in. There was shuddering sob, muffled by his vest. His frantic breaths slowing, if just a hair. Still fast, still hectic, but more in control. They were getting there. 

“That's it, just like that. You're doing good, son. Just-just keep breathing like that.”

It was better. 

Far better than a moment ago.

But the worst wasn't over yet. 

Because he still needed to remove the hook. 

That ugly, vile thing protruding from his skin. Bruises already forming in ugly splotches. Blood, far too much of it, coating his back, staining his torn shirt. The god damn bastards...Dutch closed his eyes, cursing himself. 

He should have looked back. 

The soft shudder in his hold forced him to open his eyes. Arthur attempting to draw in a deep, desperate breath, but hardly managing more than a whine. Dutch brushed his hair back, thumb rubbing gently over his temple, watching him pant. Still trying to deal with the pain. 

He could do nothing about the pain. Not until he got him back to camp that was. He'd get him back, get him so drunk it'd wash away any memory of this horrible thing. Of the horrible thing yet to come. Dutch swallowed, keeping his voice calm despite the dread creeping into him. 

“Arthur...I'm going to-it's gotta come out. I'm going-”

They boy only nodded, a grunt escaping between short breaths. Perhaps the only acknowledgment he would get. Dutch steadied himself, shifting, preparing. Arthur whimpering under him. 

“Grab hold of me if you need to, son,” he told him gently, knowing that this was going to hurt like hell. He felt the boy comply, fingers digging into the flesh of his leg. A sharp gasp, his entire body going rigid when he grabbed the hook. 

“You're doing good,” Dutch told him softly. For a moment, he simply held it, careful not move, steeling himself. Then slowly, ever so slowly, he began to pull. Looping it back out. Fresh blood welling at the action, a strangled gasp beneath him. He was crying again. 

Soft, shaking sobs. Drowned out as Arthur buried his head back into his chest. Dutch held him firm, one arm clamped about torso, pulling with other still. Halfway there. Eyes trained on what he was doing, trying to follow the mangled path that had been created when it was forced into him the first time. He could see it, dragging beneath the skin, pulling...tearing...he was going to be sick. 

Dutch felt his own heart race, teeth clamped tight as he worked the rest of it free. Tossed it the side in one angry motion, wanting that vile offender as far away from them as possible. Then he was quick, slapping down his bandanna, trying to staunch the bleeding. 

“It's over,” he breathed, “it's out. You did good son, you did a real good job. I've got you now. It's alright.”

At least he hoped it was. Arthur was still trembling, soft sobs shaking his frame. Dutch could feel gut still roiling deep inside of him. God damn O'Driscolls. His insides twisting painfully as he looked about him, the bodies a reminder that they needed to move. 

Just a moment. A single moment to sit there, to hold him, to let him know he was going to be just fine. Then they would get back to camp, get him fixed up as best he could. Get him drunk and let him sleep this horrible nightmare off. And Dutch? He was determined to get drunk as well. 

With any luck, they would both remember this as little as possible. 


End file.
